Foolproof Plans
by controlled climb
Summary: Neville's infatuation with Gabrielle is growing stronger and he does something truly stupid - he asks Ron Weasley for advice.


_Written for the "Lost In Translation" Challenge._

- Apologies for incorrect French. -

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Neville couldn't help but stare after her as she left. Her long blonde hair swaying past her waist like a pendulum was hypnotizing. She was perfect. Watching as she clasped her older sister's hand, he couldn't help but smile lightly. Maybe it was her veela blood, or maybe it was her alluring French accent, whatever it was, Neville Longbottom was head over heels for Gabrielle Delacour.

He had tried to speak to her once or twice. Shuddering at the memory, he attempted to rid it from his mind. It hadn't gone too well, to say the least. The words that had sounded so perfect in his minds seemed to escape him whenever he neared her, and as a result he was left in a stammering mess. It was _embarrassing_. People teased him enough already – he didn't need to add to his terrible reputation.

After trying for several days to push the pretty girl to the back of his mind, he realized that there was only one thing to do. Talk to a bloke, and get the girl already. For some absurd reason, the first person that crossed his mind was Ron Weasley. Now, Ron was not known for his way with females, and if Neville had been thinking straight, Ron would probably have been that last person that he went to. Needless to say, Neville was not thinking straight as he sat on the common room couch, chatting to him.

"Look," Ron wore a serious face, in an attempt to look and sound experienced. "This has happened to me many times before, and –"

"When?" Neville blurted out, astounded.

Ron frowned at the outburst, and hurriedly continued. " – And I reckon you should try to connect with her, you know?"

"Connect…" Neville trailed off, racking his brains for an idea. His first thought was to give her a flower, but that wouldn't do. Especially considering Fleur was her older sister. How would that look? If anyone was getting flowers, it ought to be Fleur, due to her namesake.

"Yeah. D'you reckon you could learn French?"

"Learn French!"

"You're being a right parrot," Ron mock glared, chuckling slightly. "Yeah, French. Can't be that hard, eh?"

_Oh, yes, it could_. Neville didn't have any time to voice his thoughts, and when he looked up in hopes of seeing a teasing gleam in Ron's eyes, he was disappointed to see that he had already left. He had to give it to him – it seemed like a foolproof plan. She was French and he would speak French. That would be a pretty good connection. Besides, wasn't it meant to be the language of love or something? How hard could it be?

Several hours later, Neville could be found in the library, his forehead resting on an open French dictionary. His head was throbbing madly from the studying. He couldn't remember the last time he had studied so hard. Except for maybe that one time in Potions… but even then Hermione had been helping him.

"Are you alright, Neville?" Hermione's voice pulled him from his thoughts, as she pulled a chair out and invited herself to sit down. She immediately begun emptying out her satchel and placing numerous books and quills on the table. "Ronald said you might like some help."

Neville glanced up, a tired expression haunting his face. In all honesty, he should have thought of asking Hermione ages ago. She was practically a walking dictionary, for Merlin's sake. Surely she of all people would know French. Remember though, he wasn't quite in the right state of mind, and the normal way to do things just didn't seem very obvious to him.

"Do you know French, Hermione?"

"A little bit. I'm not very good," Hermione replied sheepishly. She cast her gaze downwards – scanning over the books that Neville had sprawled over the desk. "I might be able to help though."

"Brilliant. How do you say, 'I love you?'"

Lifting her gaze, Hermione stared at him in bewilderment. "Why exactly do need to learn French, Neville?"

He blushed bright red in reply, refusing to meet her eyes. This caused her to grin. There was only one reason that a boy like Neville would suddenly pick up a language like French. And that reason was _girls_.

"Who is she then?" Hermione asked, already flicking through various pages and writing small notes. "Not Fleur, I hope."

Not wanting to question her dislike for the girl, Neville simply kept his mouth shut, though he knew it wouldn't last long. If he didn't speak soon, Hermione would probably torture or threaten it out of him. It wasn't that she was a particularly cruel girl; it was that sometimes her curiosity got the better of her. She hated not knowing, and would do almost anything in her power to know exactly what it was that she didn't.

"Neville…" Hermione sung warningly, waving her wand flippantly. She wasn't actually going to hurt him – he knew that. Still, he gulped loudly, his eyes widened in terror as he kept his gaze locked on the wand in front of him.

"Gabrielle," he managed to choke out.

"Delacour?" Hermione gasped in shock, and much to Neville's pleasure, she dropped her wand in surprise. "You fancy Gabrielle Delacour?"

The red burning returned to his cheeks, and he once more refused to meet her eyes. He pushed a book towards her in silence, praying that she would help him without asking any more questions. No need to make it more awkward than it already was. With a huff of disapproval, Hermione wrenched the book from his grasp, furiously scanning over the pages.

"Je t'aime," she muttered finally, her fingertip prodding a page proudly. "That's how you say 'I love you.'"

"Je t'aime," Neville repeated, rolling the phrase off his tongue. It sounded pretty, and almost sweet. He could only assume that he was pronouncing it correctly.

The process repeated as Hermione found several more phrases. Now, if only he could remember them. Hermione had strongly advised against writing them on his hand, claiming that there would be hell to pay if he got caught.

"You'll just have to rely on your memory," Hermione sighed in defect, placing several books into her satchel and pushing her chair out. "Best of luck, Neville. Tell me how it goes."

_I'll need it_, he thought miserably, as he clutched a single piece of parchment in his fist. That was all he had now. The only thing to do now was to find Gabrielle and woo her. And honestly, how could a girl _not_ be wooed? Neville had never thought that he would say this about Ron, but his idea had been truly ingenious.

As the day passed, Neville found that he was getting more and more anxious to find the young veela witch. He made his way through the crowds of students, and before long, he was only metres away from the cluster of Beauxbatons girls. Taking a deep, unsure breath, he took a small step forward. They were giggling madly now, mocking him.

"Ga – Gabrielle?" he stuttered nervously, kicking at the grass with his feet, determined not to look at her. "Can… can I ask you something?"

She pursed her light pink lips, smiling weakly at him as she was drowned out by the hysteric laughter of her peers. Taking him gently by the hand, she tugged him away from her group, shaking her head apologetically. "Neville, oui?"

"Ah, yeah," Neville muttered, surprised the she knew his name. "I... well... I really like you, and I was wondering..." The phrase was on the tip on his tongue, and he furiously racked his brains in hopes of remembering it. He had never been so embarrassed in his life. Why did he have be so forgetful? "Be my bitch?"

She had the decency to look scandalized, and her eyes flung wide open as she let out a loud gasp. "Your vot?"

"My..." He could tell her reaction that he had obviously said the wrong thing, but he was _certain_ that that was exactly what Hermione had told him. It was a term of endearment - something to do with a doe, if he remembered correctly. But obviously Hermione had gotten it wrong. Perhaps he should go back to the original plan. How was it said again? "Um. Je t'aime?"

"You mean _ma biche_," Gabrielle cried in understanding, blinking rapidly as the puzzle pieces clicked into place. "Je suis desolee, Neville, mais pas."

"What?" he asked dumbly.

She smiled weakly at him, and waved her hand daintily as she walked away from him. He hadn't understood her rejection in words, but her actions spoke loudly enough. Still, like the true Gryffindor he was, he made his way back to the library. He spent the next few hours in the library, trying to figure out where he went wrong. Ron's plan was, after all, foolproof. So he must have gone wrong _somewhere_. Next time though, never mind Hermione, he was going to write it on his hand.


End file.
